


Harmony

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healing, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, The West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo's healing both in Middle earth and after his arrival in the West.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters, main events or places in this tale. They all belong to JRR Tolkien. This is a non profit fanfic.
> 
> When Arwen gave Frodo her pendant and told him that he could sail in her place, had she discussed this yet with her father? What did Elrond discover about Frodo's health/spirit when they met up again in Minas Tirith six months after their first meeting in Rivendell? Does Elrond feel remorseful that Frodo has paid so high a price for a task that he (Elrond) might have taken on himself? Does he examine Frodo in Minas Tirith and see him as a glass filled with a clear light, and worthy of the West? In other words, when Elrond sees Frodo again after Arwen's wedding, what are his thoughts/feelings/actions? 
> 
>  
> 
> A plot bunny kindly donated by Shirebound

The Master of Rivendell sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, weary to the core of his being. His son’s comforting presence appeared behind him, feeding strength into his sire.

Elrond raised leaden eyelids, glancing up in thanks to Elrohir and accepting the offered gift. Opposite them, Arwen was smoothing the covers over their charge, while Sam hovered at her side. The little gardener caught Elrond’s eye accusingly as soon as he noticed that the healer was once more conscious of them. Sam’s voice was filled with concern and not a little accusation, the words tumbling over themselves to be heard.

“What happened? Why have you stopped? You said there was a bit of poisoned metal in him. You’ve got to get it out. Don’t leave my master like this.”

“It is destroyed, Samwise. I have melted it.” Elrond was unable to keep the weariness from his voice and Gandalf came to his aid against the over-protective Sam.

“Master Elrond has indeed melted it, Sam. It is not always necessary to use physical means to destroy such a weapon. It was spelled to attack your master’s spirit, rather than his body, and Elrond has fought like with like. Trust me, Sam. It is gone.”

Elrond smiled briefly, knowing that Sam would believe Gandalf where he would not believe a stranger. He reached forward to rest fingers against the small pulse fluttering in Frodo’s throat, relieved when the hobbit’s pale eyelids flickered in vague response to the touch.

Gone? Elrond had no doubt it was melted but whether Frodo would ever be rid of it entirely was something that would only be evident with time. He would have preferred to cut it free but time was too short. The shard had almost reached the hobbit’s heart and he was so weak that a large blood loss would have been the final stroke. Such an action would only have aided the enemy in ensorcelling Frodo. So he had unbound the metal. However, the components were still circulating in Frodo’s body. He was no longer in any danger of becoming a wraith but Elrond was uncertain how much the hobbit’s small body would be able to purge. He thought it likely that Frodo would carry some of the effects for the rest of his life.

Lifting heavy fingers, the elven healer moved his hand, running it down Frodo’s left shoulder and arm. His eyes discerned something . . . a pale light that seemed to glow through the fine veined skin. Had he the strength left to do so, the elven healer would have reached into Frodo, to listen to the song of his soul. Perhaps not all the effects of the enemy’s weapon were to Frodo’s detriment? He glanced across the broad bed, one eyebrow arched in query, and was met with small nods from his daughter and Gandalf. They had seen it too.

The flesh beneath his fingers still felt icy and he began to worry that the damage done was irreversible. But no . . . the merest hint of warmth was spreading down the limb and Elrond sighed. Reaching across, he lifted Sam’s hand from the coverlet and laid it upon his master’s forearm.

“There, Samwise. Can you feel it? He will recover.”

Sam’s fingers, sensitive enough to handle the most delicate of rootlets, wrapped themselves about his master’s arm as his other hand reached out to take hold of Frodo’s hand. For a moment his eyes were fixed upon the still pale cheeks of his friend, his chin quivering as he fought to control the tears of relief and joy that threatened to overwhelm him. He turned to the mighty elf lord who had struggled for three days to help his master.

“Thank you, Master Elrond, sir. I shouldn’t have questioned you. You’ve given of your very best.” There was a hitch of indrawn breath and the little gardener dropped his eyes to the examination of his master’s fingers.

A wry smile touched Gandalf’s face and he dropped his life callused hand upon Sam’s shoulder. “You have been Frodo’s support and strength through a perilous time, with little thought for your own comfort or feelings. It is safe to release the pain you have been pushing down all these long days in the wild. You have been hurt too and it is time to find your own healing. Not all tears are an evil.”

Whether from Gandalf’s comforting words or from the familiar grip upon his shoulder, Elrond could not tell but he saw a great burden lift from the gardener. Sam lowered his head onto Frodo’s hand and began to sob, while Gandalf stroked his back. With his head buried in the richly embroidered coverlet, Sam did not see it, but Elrond noticed a small crease form between Frodo’s brows and a slight tilt of his head in his friend’s direction.

It seemed to Elrond that all tension lifted from the room at that moment and he rose slowly, accepting his son’s help. Frodo would not die this day. Tomorrow would carry troubles of its own but they would be faced soon enough.

Behind them, Arwen opened the windows and the soft night air drifted in to caress them all, carrying the scent of life and the sound of cleansing, rushing water.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ada?”

The light whisper slipped into his dreams and Elrond drew his eyes into focus upon his daughter’s smiling face. He pushed himself up and arranged the pillows at his back as Arwen placed a small tray upon his lap.

“Thank you, Titheniel.” One eyebrow arched as he began to spread thick, pale honey upon fresh bread. Arwen had always been an attentive child but she also knew the value of sweetening the pot where her father was concerned. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

His daughter dimpled prettily at his use of her childhood name and settled upon the edge of her father’s bed, pouring him a cup of hot mint tea. “You have been looking a little weary of late so I decided that you deserved breakfast in bed.”

Elrond shook his head. “I am not sure whether to be worried that it is so obvious or pleased that you noticed.” He offered her a piece of the honeyed bread and Arwen accepted it delicately, licking a stray smear of sweetness from her finger.

“Ami told me to look after you, so I am.” She glanced up at her father from beneath dark lashes, essaying her most winsome expression. “Besides, this is the only time of day I can get you to myself.”

Her father found his lips quirking into a smile. In his darker moments, Elrond liked to believe that he could not be swayed by her expressions, but then honesty won out. “What is it that you want to talk to me about, Arwen?”

To his surprise, her smile faded and fine white teeth worried at her bottom lip. It was an action he recognised from childhood and usually presaged a question that she was worried would draw his ire. “Ada . . . will Frodo recover? I know that he is getting better but I sensed a hesitancy in your voice when you spoke to Gandalf, yesterday.”

Elrond paused to take a sip of his tea before replying. He had always sought to be honest and open with his children. With them he did not have to maintain the air of a high elven lord . . . at least most of the time. “The shard has been melted, but its components are still within him. He carried it for a long time and it is my fear that it may have affected his fea in some permanent way.”

“He is a sweet and brave soul. I felt it as you worked throughout these past days, Ada. It would be pity indeed if he should continue to suffer its effects. He has endured so much.” Arwen laid down her bread with her last words and her adar reached out to capture her hand.

“He is Bilbo Baggins’ kin. There is strength within him that he has only just begun to plumb.” He paused. Frodo had shown great fortitude already, but he would need yet more. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that might can always be measured in terms of physical prowess. There are other strengths.”

Arwen met his gaze squarely and drew her fingers from his grasp. She had ever been perceptive where her father was concerned. “You have foreseen something, haven’t you?”

Elrond only took another sip of his tea. Long ago he had learned to keep his visions to himself, for fear of changing the outcome. In Elrond’s long experience, turning aside to try and change a vision invariably made matters worse, rather than better. It was a point he had often tried to argue with his marriage mother. Not that one ever won an argument against Galadriel.

“Ada? Do you really intend to send such an innocent against our enemy?”

“The Council has decided.” Her father’s tone became stern but Arwen had been raised by him to state her mind, and she was not about to give up that habit now.

“You cannot be so cruel. Frodo would not live through such a trial.”

Elrond laid down his half-finished cup of tea, no longer interested in it. “There is more at stake here than the life of one hobbit. In such days as these some sacrifices must be made,” he replied gravely.

But Arwen would not easily surrender her protection of the innocent. “And is Frodo Baggins to be that sacrifice? What have you seen?”

“My sight shows me little, child. And of what it does show I will keep my own council.” When she would have interrupted him Elrond held up his hand to forestall her. “You have my promise that I will give him all the aid that is within my power. Do not forget that it was he who offered to carry the Ring. Frodo was not pressed to this task.”

The statement only served to sharpen his daughter’s gaze and Elrond’s heart stumbled as the image brought memory of her mother.

“I know you, and Mithrandir, too well. You may not have asked Frodo but I have little doubt that you made your thoughts quite clear. With your skills it would be easy to manipulate him into thinking that the decision was his.” As soon as she uttered those last words, Arwen wished with all her heart that she could take them back, for the naked hurt in her father’s eyes told all.

“Do you think so little of me?” The words fell into a pool of silence that Arwen could see stretching to infinity if she did not act. Where had such a thought come from? Her response was desperate.

“I am sorry, Ada. I do not know what made me believe such a thing of you. You would never be so cruel. Please forgive me.” 

Elrond reached out a hand to smooth the lines of worry that threaded her pale brow. “You wish to protect an innocent and I am proud that you would seek to do so. I would expect no less from the daughter of Celebrian.” Capturing her face between his hands he drew his daughter close and kissed her brow.

Once he knew that her heart had been soothed he continued, but his words were spoken with firmness. “The Ring must go to Mordor. That much is clear to all sane folk. And I do not think that Frodo would now be parted from it. I have seen his fea . . . the Ring begins to entwine it already.”

Arwen made another plea. “But if it binds him already, will he be able to destroy it when the time comes? Surely another must be chosen?”

“My sight is unclear upon the manner of the Ring’s destruction. Even if another was chosen it is likely that he would come under Its sway just as quickly. Then we would be no further forward.” Elrond pushed his breakfast tray aside and rose from the bed, moving to stand before the window. But he could not evade his daughter’s eye, nor the sadness in her voice.

“And, if he survives . . . what then?”

“If he does . . . the extent of our help will depend upon his own wishes. I will not impose anything upon him.” He stared out at the neatly pruned rose garden, only one or two late flowers gracing the bushes. The future was so uncertain that only tentative plans could be set in place.

“And yet you would impose his continued journey?” 

Her father eyes remained fixed upon his wife’s garden. Each year the roses would send up just one more flower to set seed and continue the line. Just one more chance before winter arrived with frost to catch and burn the bud. The sacrifice of a delicate bloom . . . for a hope.

When her father did not reply Arwen left and Elrond laid his head against the sun warmed wood of the casement, his mind’s eye seeing only too well the disappointment in her face. Was the Ring working It’s spell even within the borders of Imladris . . . within his own family? Or was it simply his daughter’s natural compassion? Was his own mind tainted by It’s jangling tune? He closed his eyes, trying to regain his customary peace, but his thoughts continued to whirl.

The chances of Frodo surviving long enough to destroy the Ring were infinitesimal. The chances of him surviving once the Ring was thrown into the fire were quite beyond Elrond’s reckoning. The bearers of the elven rings had made some plans but they could only be tentative in their nature and the fewer that knew, the fewer opportunities there were for their enemy to get wind of them.

It pained him to think that he had to keep such matters from his Titheniel, for since her mother’s departure for the West the two had ever been close. He it was whom she turned to for advice and often, he would use her as a sounding board for his own decisions. But on this occasion he must shut her out . . . for the safety of Middle earth . . . and not for the first time did he wish that Vilya had never come to him.

 

0000000000

Glancing up at the cloudy winter sky, Elrond listened, as he had listened all of that day. The distant song of the nine walkers was fading as they left the sphere of his influence and he could feel the entire valley relax as the discord of the enemy’s ring faded. In his mind’s eye he saw the flickering light of their fea’s. All were tainted now, a shadow winding through them. His sight could not reveal how long they would be able to resist the pull of the One Ring but it was clear that all were feeling It’s influence.

He was drawn again to the shining soul that was Frodo Baggins. Light and dark blended and swirled, the sweet and steady melody of his fea beginning to take on a minor key. Would the Ringbearer be able to retain some memory of that song, or would it be lost and forgotten to all but Elrond?

The keeper of Vilya gathered up the remembrance of that mithril strand of melody and held it close.


	3. Chapter 3

Arwen fell back to draw level with her father, her mount snorting greeting to its stable mate. Elrond smiled at his daughter but could not hold from her discerning eye the growing loss in his heart.

Ahead, the newly rebuilt gates of the White City were swinging ponderously open and Elrond knew, more surely than he had ever known before, that they were about to swallow his child. Mortality was devouring her and all too soon he would be destined never to hear her laughter again.

Sensing the path of his thoughts, Arwen reached across to lay a gloved hand upon his arm. “I am happy, Adar. I want this more than immortality. I want Aragorn. Please, rejoice with me.”

Elrond pushed down his dark thoughts and from centuries of practice came the skill to bring light to his features, contentment to his gaze. But within his breast his heart threatened to burst the constraints he now drew tightly about it. It had been broken too many times before and to let go the bonds now would shatter him completely.

He had not told her yet, but he intended to take ship to the West shortly. He was stretched too thin, his fea too bruised and battered to stay even long enough to see her first child conceived. If he waited any longer he may well become bound to Middle earth forever and, while that may be the choice of his daughter, it was not his. Elrond was weary of the never-ending cycle of war and death. Early evening stars kindled a glow of deep blue upon his finger. He was weary of the burden of leadership, the strain of wielding power in silence and secret.

They were nearly at the gates now. His sons had gone before, followed by Galadriel and Celeborn and others of their kin and now Elrond and the future Queen of Gondor were last to ride through the broad, newly gilded doors.

He glanced aside as they crossed the threshold. Arwen was smiling as she rode beneath the shadow of the heavy lintel.

0000000000000

In a broad courtyard within the gate squires in the sable and argent livery of the White Tower came forward to lead away the mounts, and crowds cheered as their king strode forward. As one, the assemblage of fair folk bowed gracefully to the new High King . . . he who would now hold responsibility for the governance of Arda. Then Aragorn stood before his foster father and future wife. His regal expression softened as his gaze met that of Arwen and Elrond found that he was very much aware of two swift beating hearts, the rising symphony of their conjoined fea.

Out of long habit, Elrond bowed to the king and took refuge in protocol, placing the hand of his daughter in that of her betrothed.

It was as they climbed the winding road to the Citadel that Elrond saw him. The ringbearer.

He was barely recognisable. Not because of his rich clothing, nor because of any great change in his features, unless perhaps that he was a little thinner. Nor was it the weary and slightly distant expression in his bright blue eyes that struck the elven lord.

Amongst so many other songs, yet still he should have recognised this melody. When he narrowed his concentration, however, Elrond could easily hear why he had at first overlooked it. Frodo’s soul song, once gay and dancing with light, had changed. There was light still, but it was different. Where once had flickered the warm golden sunbeams of a spring morning, now shone the steady but pearl-silver light of a cool autumn afternoon. The Ring wrought darkness that had been twined about his soul was gone, but nothing had filled its place. The gentle melody of Frodo’s fea faltered, large portions of it ripped away by and destroyed with the Ring.

For a moment their eyes met, then Frodo’s flicked away, a smile touching his lips but not lighting his features, as he was gathered in by his companions and joined the wedding procession. 

Elrond found himself haunted by that broken, almost-melody. What had they . . . No . . . what had he done to this child of light? Was the time now here to make what offer they could for reparation?


	4. Chapter 4

(The idea of Arwen’s jewel being linked in some way to Celebrian is one that Febobe and I have discussed several times. Here is my take on it.) 

 

Earendil charted his steady course across the evening sky, almost at the zenith of his journey. The overgrown garden was bathed in the silvered glow of Elbereth’s bounty and shafts of moonlight played hide and seek with sleeping roses beneath the branches of gently swaying beeches.

Elrond drew his gaze closer as a gentle breeze carried to him the soft murmur of voices. These he knew and so he waited patiently for their owners to find him in the elegantly overgrown garden.

“Good evening, Adar.” The soft brush of lips upon his head followed Arwen’s words.

“Good evening, children.”

Hand in hand, Aragorn and Arwen stepped around him, pausing to brush aside some stray tendrils of ivy before seating themselves upon the bench opposite. The King glanced about this once elegant sanctuary, hidden deep within high stone walls.

“I think it about time that some attention was given to such places as this. I understand that there has been little time over the past years. Perhaps Master Samwise would be willing to assist while he is here.”

Elrond’s fingers dropped to stroke the petals of a pure white rose and the blossom stretched up to accept his caress. “It would be a pity to bring such exuberant beauty to constrained order for this city has known too much military precision. It is good to see that life can go on, creating its own balance without the interference of we, so called, higher beings.”

Arwen’s soft voice mingled with the perfume of the night scented flowers. “This place reminds me of Mother’s garden. I think I would like to care for this myself.” A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I promise to let the flowers bloom where they will.”

Lifting his eyes to the west, Elrond nodded. “Your mother has a gift for fulfilling the needs of living things. Her nature was ever to be generous and loving and I am glad that she has passed that love to you, to grace this place. Gondor has gained more than it will ever know.”

Aragorn slipped an arm about his queen’s waist. “Gondor knows what it has won and will worship it each day.” 

His grave face was turned by Arwen’s gentle touch upon his cheek and she smoothed away the beginning of a frown upon his brow. When had he begun to gain these badges of mortality? Her soft grey eyes captured his.

“And Arwen, too, has gained more than she hoped or dreamed of. I need no worship . . . only your love and my family’s blessing.” She turned back to her father, fingers straying to her throat, where a single clear crystal dripped from a fine silver chain.

“You have my blessing children. This you already know. As for your mother, Arwen, you would know her thoughts as well as I.”

Arwen smiled as she unfastened the chain, holding the necklace in her palm, where it caught a stray moonbeam and glowed softly. She held it out for her husband to see.

“This was gifted to me by Ada when Ami took ship to the West. It carries an image of her soul song, set there by him. Whenever I needed to feel her comfort I had only to touch this and her memory lifted and supported me.”

Aragorn brushed an awed finger across the smooth teardrop shaped jewel, his eyes widening as Numenorian blood connected with elven mystery. Now both father and daughter smiled as his eyes softened at the melody he heard there.

“Now I understand why you both miss her so much.” He glanced aside at his wife. “It is humbling that you would be willing to surrender all chance of seeing her again, to bind yourself to me.”

Arwen closed her fingers upon the jewel. “I have chosen and I have no regrets. The memory of her touch will always be with me.” She held out her hand to her father, the fine silver chain slithering from between her fingers. “I do not need this any more, but there is someone I wish to gift it to . . . with your permission and help.”

Elrond captured the cool whisper of mithril, and the polished gem landed with a soft chink upon the pool of metal in his upturned palm. “What do you ask, daughter?”

Leaning forward, Arwen’s voice grew earnest in entreaty. “You told me that you had memorised the soul song of Frodo Baggins. I know that you see the damage done to him. He will need all the aid we can give if he is to survive now.”

When her father nodded she pressed on. “You set a copy of Ami’s fea in this jewel once and it brought me great comfort. Can you not do the same for Frodo? Give him a copy of his own song to sustain him when pain and grief press too hard.”

For a moment, Elrond considered. “What you ask is a difficult undertaking, but not impossible. But I wonder how effective it will be for someone with no elven blood. He may not be able to sense anything from the jewel.”

His daughter nodded. “I know. But I would like to give him this if I can. He may not sense all, but you see the light in him even now. I think he will feel something, and that something may be enough.”

“If you wish it, then it shall be done,” her father replied simply.

Closing his mind to all else, the elven lord reached into the flawless stone, sighing as Celebrian’s soft music enveloped him in greeting. For several moments he allowed that gentle melody to wash through and around him before, sadly, he smoothed it all away. Now only his heart, and perhaps two others, held true memory of Celebrian this side of the Sundering Sea.

Elrond lowered the stone to rest upon soft earth at their feet. This was a gift from all and so all should be involved. Reaching across, he captured Estel’s hand in his left, Arwen’s in his right, so that their conjoined hands formed a circle about the gem.

Calling forth the memory of Frodo’s song, Elrond set it playing in his mind. Even in that memory there was some thread of darkness for he had not met Frodo until after his wounding at Weathertop. But the melody was still largely intact and, if this worked, would blend with the damaged song that was today’s Frodo Baggins, forming shadow bridges across the chasms caused by the rending of the Ring from his soul.

He felt Aragorn trustingly open his mind to his foster father even as Elrond asked, and the elf took a moment to caress that mind, as he had the lost and sorrowful child that had come to his home so many years before. From the man’s fea he gathered a line of melody, weaving its strength into Frodo’s song, bringing steel to a section that had faltered. Arwen needed no asking and she offered her own gentle chorus to enfold and support the song. Elrond wove all, threading them through with his own calm and peace.

It took only a few minutes, then all three were blinking open their eyes and looking down at the gem at their feet. Whether simply from reflected starlight or from elven magic, it glowed warm and bright against the dark earth.

Elrond held it out to his daughter, watching the crystal teardrop spin in the moonlight. It was Aragorn that took it from him, moving the silken wing of Arwen’s hair aside to fasten the chain at her nape. The jewel nestled, as it had done for hundreds of years, against the creamy skin of her throat.

“Thank you, Adar. I knew you would not abandon him.” Arwen reached across to stroke his cheek and for a moment Elrond leaned into the touch, very much aware that there would be few such moments left to them. He reached up to capture her fingers and held them between his hands.

“There is another gift that we may offer Frodo. I could not speak of it before.” He gathered both his children into his gaze. “We can offer Frodo passage to the West, if he wishes it. I do not know what healing he will find there but it may be that the land’s virtue will offer succour that Middle earth cannot.”

Elrond smiled at the light kindled in his daughter’s eyes. “When your grandmother told me that giving Frodo this option would be your task I did not understand. But now I do. Your love and compassion makes you the perfect person to inform him. My Titheniel.”

Both his children reached out to enfold him in grateful embrace. Arwen’s pure laughter delighted his ear and Aragorn’s strong arms held tight. Elrond, the father, lost himself to the moment, locking away in his heart every nuance of their duet of love.


	5. Chapter 5

Elrond eased Frodo back into his pillows, settling him comfortably upon the low couch. The anniversary illness had passed quickly but had left Frodo weak and listless and the elven healer felt a deep compassion for him. They had all hoped that the air in this beautiful land would work its own healing but October 6th had come, and with it Frodo had succumbed to his pain and grief once more. In his nightmare world it had mattered little to him that he had been tended with love and compassion. He knew only an anguish that further shredded his already ragged and failing fea.

Bilbo sat by his couch for many hours but age, guilt and sorrow had finally forced him to take some rest. Elrond it was who bathed the fevered body in cool spring water. It was he who coaxed sweet fruit juices and thin broths between cracked and trembling lips. And it was Elrond the lore master who now sat upon the grass beside Frodo’s couch, recounting the lyrical tale of the coming of the Valar to Middle earth.

“Mightier than Este is Nienna. She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered. So great was her sorrow, as the Music of creation unfolded, that her song turned to lamentation long before its end, and the sound of mourning was woven into the themes of the World before it began. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope. Her halls are west of West, upon the borders of the world; and she comes seldom to the city of Valimar where all is glad. She goes rather to the halls of Mandos, which are near to her own; and all those who wait in Mandos cry to her, for she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom.”

Elrond paused as something in the atmosphere changed. The birds that had woven their song through and around his rich voice grew muted and the air became misted with the salt tang of the sea . . . or tears. Despite the mist, however, the glade filled with a soft, pearlescent light and Elrond arose, turning toward the source of this illumination. At his side, Frodo gazed in awe and fear, reaching up to grasp the elf’s hand.

A tall figure floated before them. Slender as the willow she was and yet as strong as any oak. A veil of silver hair fell to here knees, glittering as though dressed with a thousand tiny jewels, like cobwebs dusted with bright tears. Her raiment was palest grey, that shimmered as it tried in vain to contain the glow of her being.

The Valar never left Valimar. Such a thing had not been heard of for ages past. And yet, here stood one of the shining ones.

Elrond lowered himself to one knee and Frodo tried his best to rise from his pillows, only to fall back with a small sigh as the lady lifted a hand to stay him. Her voice was soft and low, gentle, as one long used to offering comfort to those who suffered.

“Greetings to you, Frodo, Son of Drogo . . . and to you, Elrond, Son of Earendil.”

It was Elrond who found voice. “Your presence honours us, Vala Nienna.”

“Please rise, Elrond. We are no strangers, you and I. Many ages we have walked patiently together and you have you learned much.”

Doing as the lady bid, Elrond stepped aside as she drifted towards the ringbearer and settled upon his couch. Even in his weakness, Frodo recognised the honour and bowed his head slightly, licking dry lips before he spoke.

“I had not sought such an honour. I am humbled that you would come and sorry that I cannot rise to acknowledge that honour as I should.”

Nienna merely smiled gently. She laid a white hand upon his brow and Frodo released a sigh, as one letting go a long held pain. Elrond watched as his fea flared brightly for a moment, before settling into a faint but stronger glow. 

The lady beckoned to someone in the mist. “Olorin?“

A familiar voice, gruff with age and overflowing with kindness, slipped into the hush the Vala’s presence had created. “Come Frodo. It is time.” Mithrandir stepped forward, smiling down at his friend in the guise that Frodo had first come to love, his grey robes frayed and patched. He gathered Frodo into his arms and the hobbit smiled up at him at last, reaching out to tangle his still nimble fingers in the thick grey beard.

“Gandalf.” The word was breathed out on another sigh and Frodo nuzzled his face into the soft wool of the wizard’s robe, finding there the comfort of familiarity and trust. 

Elrond watched them leave, his heart crowded with questions. Would this be Frodo’s healing? Or was his recent illness a sign that healing was not to be his after all? Was he being carried to the Halls of Mandos, or wherever it was that hobbits were taken at the end of their life in Arda? 

A touch on Elrond’s arm drew him back to awareness of the Vala’s presence and her soft voice whispered, “Go with them, Elrond. You are needed for this work.”

The elf bowed meekly and turned to follow the Maiar as Nienna’s voice slipped into his thoughts. “You brought him here in hopes of finding healing, did you not? You would not abandon Frodo, and neither will we.”

Elrond’s heart soared within his breast as he lengthened his stride to draw level with Olorin and his precious charge.


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo had been waiting for them on the boat and the short journey to Valinor had caused the Ringbearer no further distress, rather, it seemed to Elrond that he improved. Whether this was due to the virtue of the land they were approaching or the companionship provided by Elrond, Gandalf and Bilbo was not clear, but by the time the small ship docked Frodo was talking softly with his uncle.

As he stepped ashore, Elrond inhaled deeply of the fresh, clean air and was almost overwhelmed by the vigour that coursed through his limbs. Glancing aside, he saw that both hobbits were now smiling widely, indeed Bilbo looked as though he would burst into a little jig at any moment.

Gandalf’s amused voice joined the birdsong that flooded the crystal air. “That’s it. Breathe deeply my friends. Breathe deeply of air that is as pristine as it was when the world’s first note was sung.”

Bilbo’s old voice had lost its ancient quaver and he laughed as heartily as he had the first time that Elrond met him. “I almost feel I should take a comment from our dear Samwise. In fact, I will.” He gestured widely and grinned. “Glory and trumpets!”

Elrond was startled to hear Frodo’s merry giggle join his uncle’s laughter, aware that he had not heard that sound for many weeks. Its melody was a balm of enchantment more effective than even the symphony of this fair land.

Although the journey must have taken many hours, it seemed to the travellers that it was but moments for the ground cradled their feet and buoyed them up with every step. Each breath brought life and vigour and it was clear that even Frodo felt its effects as he began a gentle conversation with Gandalf and Bilbo.

“Where are we going, Gandalf?”

“We have been invited to visit Lord Lorien and his lady, Este, upon her isle in the centre of Lake Lorellin, within the incomparable gardens of Lorien.”

Bilbo fairly bounced with delight. “Lorien? Irmo . . . the Bringer of Dreams. Oh my. I never thought I would see such a time.”

Frodo’s voice was filled with awe . . . and hope. “And Este . . . the Healer.”

“And perhaps there will be others,” Gandalf added with his usual air of mystery.

“My memory is not what it was. Tell me again of the Valar, Gandalf.”

It was not Gandalf who answered Bilbo, but Elrond. For this was a list he had recited many times to edhil and edhel down the ages. His voice took on the cadence of Loremaster once more as he spoke.

“Chief among the Valar is Manwe. He is the Wind Lord and First King. Sulimo, he is also called, “Lord of the breath of Arda”, for all the air is his love and he hears all that transpires in Arda from his burnished throne in the domed halls of Ilmarin, upon the highest peak of Taniquetil. 

And at his side stands Varda, the Lady of the Stars. She whom we call Elentari and Elbereth. She kindled the stars and brings light to all those who wonder in the dark.” Here, Elrond heard Frodo’s indrawn breath and one small hand moved to clutch something within the pocket of his coat.

“Ulmo is the Lord of all water. His helmet is wave-crested and his mail is emerald and brilliant silver. Deep is his voice, as the sounding depths of the sea and yet he can also be heard in the light splash and rush of a brook or stream, or the sinuous current of the mighty river, for all water is his domain. He can move over all the world and all that waters may learn by bank and shore comes to his ear.

Aule the Smith is maker of the mountains and master of all crafts. He it was who created the dwarves and they call him Mahal, which means, “maker”.

With him sits Yavanna, she whose name means, “giver of fruits”. To some she is known as Kementari, “Queen of the Earth” and she it was who brought forth flower and tree upon Arda. She is the protector of all living things and drew flower and fruit from the Trees of the Valar, from which the Sun and Moon were wrought.”

Even as Elrond spoke the sun touched the horizon, closing the day and making way for night. For a while they paused and partook of the small store of food and drink that they had brought with them for the journey. When they had finished the sun was but a memory of golden light along the mountain’s edge and the first star was kindled in the east. They arose with light hearts and moved on through this magical land.

“Tell me more of the Valar, please, Lord Elrond.” Frodo’s voice had lost its tiredness and Elrond was more than willing to oblige.

“Namo lives in the House of the Dead. To most he is known by the name of this house, Mandos. He knows the Will of Illuvatar and none can gainsay him when he calls them to the Halls of Waiting. His sister is Nienna and his wife, Vaire. Vaire is called the Weaver for she weaves the tapestries of history and fate.”

For a while they had been travelling through cool green woodland whose grass was strewn with golden flowers and now they stood upon the shores of a lake, the stars of Elbereth reflected in its indigo depths. A swan-prowed boat floated beside a jetty and the small party stepped aboard. There was no oarsman but the pale craft slid away from the dock and drifted smoothly towards an island at the centre of the lake.

“In the southern lands of Valimar are the woods of Orome, the Tamer of Beasts and Huntsman. He is fearsome in the hunt and dreadful in battle and when he blows his horn all evil flees before him. His wife is Vana, the ever young, who’s delight is in birdsong and flower blossom. And Orome’s sister is Nessa, the dancer. All woodland creatures love her and she dances upon the never fading grasses of this land.

Tulkas is her husband, who is called, “The Strong”. He is strongest of all the Valar, quick and tireless. Even in war he carries no weapon, for his naked strength and great heart overwhelm all enemies.

Thus, you have heard the tale of all, save one, who has fallen from grace and does not reside in this fair land.”

As Elrond’s list drew to its close the boat arrived at another jetty, bathed in soft moonlight. Once more they stepped out onto grass that was cool and fresh beneath their feet. Moon and star illumined their path as they wove among the trees until they came to a wide clearing. Here a fountain splashed silver and by it, upon a low couch sat two glorious beings.

Elrond had thought that never would he find a more beautiful creature than Galadriel, but she who sat at her side this night outshone her golden beauty. How his marriage mother had come to this place Elrond did not know and past experience taught him not to ask. And, for once, Galadriel was not the important one here.

The grey clothed lady at her side arose, stepping forward to Gandalf and smiling down into the face of the Ringbearer. Her voice was as sweet as the nightingale and soft as the flutter of moth wings.

“Welcome, Frodo Baggins. I am Este and this is my husband, Lorien.” She turned aside and a tall figure stepped out from the shadows by the fountain. Her lord’s voice was low and gentle as the breeze that blows on a summer’s eve.

“You have travelled west to seek healing. Will you allow us to grant your desire?”

Frodo’s eyes, blue washed silver in the misty starlight, widened. “If you are willing to grant it, I would have healing, Lord.”

Galadriel stood and Gandalf moved forward to lay Frodo upon the soft couch. Lorien followed. “We are not able to return you to the Frodo that you were before your quest. Nor would we wish to do so, for that would change much that is now part of Frodo Baggins and to change that would be to destroy what you have learned.”

Este followed her husband, grey skirts pooling about her as she knelt upon the grass at Frodo’s side. “But the destruction of that which you bore rent your soul and that we can repair, with the help of your companions. And perhaps we can also help you to make peace with your choices. Will you accept that which we offer?”

Frodo met her gaze squarely and Elrond could not imagine what that must have cost him, for the lady was blazing light thinly veiled in cloud. “I made that decision when I climbed upon the boat in the havens. I willingly accept any healing that you may offer me.”

“Very well.” Lorien stepped forward and laid a hand upon Frodo’s brow and at once the hobbit’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing in sleep. Este remained at his side but her husband now addressed the rest of the company.

“You were asked here because you each have something to contribute to the healing of Frodo Baggins. In particular, Elrond.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Elrond. You hold the memory of Frodo’s fea. Sing.”

All elves sing and Elrond Peredhil was no exception. But it had been many years since anyone other than his family had been privileged to hear his rich tenor. For too many years he had feared that his own sorrow would darken any melody.

But the Valar commanded and he would not gainsay their wisdom in this matter. He knew the Ringbearer’s melody, had committed it to memory, but could he recreate a soul? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. No, he could not. But the Valar could, for it was they who had sung this world into being at Illuvatar’s behest. Elrond was filled with awe, knowing that it was he who would lead this choir of creation. And for one of the rare times in his long life he hesitated before uttering the first note, uncertain of his skill.

Frodo Baggins fea was a deceptively simple melody, settled in meadows and illumined by sunlight dancing on clear streams. And yet, within it were themes that told of a greater complexity, woven into his life from birth. Elrond could not unravel their beginnings and it was now that he realised why so many others were present. His would be the role of holding up the central theme around which others would weave their harmonies; each adding their own small piece to the whole, to recreate the delicate symphony of Frodo Baggins soul.

Standing tall and square, Elrond drew a deep breath, opened his throat and heart and pushed the first pure note past his open lips. For some time he stood, repeating the refrain and expanding upon it with his own knowledge of woodland peace and river’s song, and then a light caroller joined the song.

A maid she seemed, hardly into womanhood, limbs slender and lithe. Tiny feet flitted daintily upon the green sward and where they touched golden flowers sprang, releasing delicate fragrance on the air. Vana . . . the Ever Young they called her and she brought the birds, who trilled their own sweet descant to Elrond’s melody. Her song was filled with life and growing, of lovingly tended gardens and strength hidden in a gentle touch and she danced about the glade, now twirling, now gliding in flowing measure.

Elrond watched as Frodo’s hand slid up his chest to rub the pale thread of white scars stitched by the scoring of the chain. As fine and strong as Elrond’s folk had forged it, still the weight of that which hung from it had galled Frodo’s neck. A weight he would have borne alone were it not for another.

Vana’s simple and tender part grew stronger and within it was heard another voice, burred with homespun and patient as the seasons. Capable hands that supported and comforted, lifted and nurtured. An honest love that asked for little in return . . . only to be needed and to be allowed to supply that need.

“You’re not alone, Mr Frodo. Your Sam is here and always will be. Them scars . . . they don’t ought to bring pain. Them scars gave me a chance to help . . . to be where I wanted to be . . . at your side.” 

The lady bent, laying a soft kiss upon Frodo’s throat and his lips curled upward, eyes glimmering with tears of release as his fingers traced the ring of tiny scars, now a memory of love. 

With the next breath Vana was gone and Nienna’s patient and heady soprano slowed the theme as she sang of a mother’s touch lost, a father’s strength torn from a child’s clutching fingers. She wept his tears, for all this too was a part of Frodo Baggins. He had learned that not all life was joy and light and it had made him strong in ways that he could not have known. He had learned his lessons well from the Lady of Sorrows. Her fine fingers brushed away the tears from Frodo’s cheek before she melted back into the mist.

Elrond’s voice sank as a small quavering theme slipped into the symphony. He let his gaze drift across the clearing to where Bilbo sat, with Olorin at his side. The wizard’s gnarled hands rested upon the ancient hobbit’s shoulders as Bilbo made his tentative contribution to his nephew’s song.

No mortal should have been able to hear the song or be able to contribute to it but as the elf listened, the images formed within his mind.

Golden fields of ripe grain and the laughter of the reapers. Sunshine and birdsong in a hedgerow burgeoning with fat blackberries. Warm hearth and a table, laden with good food. Companionship and peace wreathed in sweet smelling pipeweed. All these in a voice that grew more confident with each note as Este laid a gentle hand upon Frodo’s breast. The subject of their care stirred drowsily in response to the warmth of song and touch, as a babe nestled securely in his father’s arms.

Even as Bilbo’s part drew to its close a deeper voice took up the part and Elrond had to raise his own once more to hold the theme against such strength. Feeling himself as much in a dream as Frodo, he turned to see a small clear stream of water bubble forth from a cleft between stones and marvelled that Ulmo could produce such a presence from that light trickle of sound. But Ulmo was the lord of all water, from the smallest stream that wound through the valleys of the Shire to the vast ocean that rolled and crashed against the cliffs along the shores of Arda, and all this was contained in that sonorous bass melody.

The glade about them faded.

Streams . . . laughing and gurgling as they tripped over fresh scoured pebbles. Tall trees and voices, one gruff and low, the other clear and sweet . . . both filled with laughter.

“Careful Gimli. Only cut away the dead branches. This poor tree is frightened enough of you.” Legolas stood upon a higher branch, his hand stroking the rough bark of the ancient tree in soothing rhythm as he grinned at his friend, who was valiantly trying to balance upon a fragile looking platform whilst swinging an axe.

“Tell me again why I volunteered to come with you to Ithilien? I have no love of trees,” the dwarf mumbled as he swung at the rotting branch one more time. The tree shuddered and he teetered for a moment before crashing to the ground with a loud oath. Legolas’ silver laugh danced upon the clear air and then his voice grew soft and suddenly serious. 

“For the love of a friend.”

The vision faded and the gurgle slowed and deepened to the stately pavane of a broad and ancient river, flowing through a city. Or, at least, what was once a city and seemed to be in the process of becoming so again. White stoned ruins were now clad in wooden scaffolding and stonemasons were lovingly reconstructing walls and towers.

Elrond’s voice stumbled for a moment before resuming, for upon the shore of the river stood two people clad in white. Aragorn bent to dip his hand in the water at his feet, scooping some up and touching it to his lips before rising to smile at his wife.

“It runs clear once more. The world is being washed clean at last.” He glanced back at the building work behind them. “We will rebuild this land. And Osgiliath will be its jewel once again.”

Arwen’s gaze dropped to the tiny sleeping babe with delicately tipped ears and downy dark hair that nestled in her arms. “Our son will grow to manhood in a new world . . . one of peace and love.”

Behind them two others stood hand in hand before a white marble plinth, upon which was carved an ornate hunting horn. The lady’s golden head leaned in towards her lord and both smiled as they read the words cut into the stone.

“Boromir . . . Beloved Son of Gondor. Defender of the Weak. Oath Keeper. Brother, Son and Friend.” 

Now, further upstream, the river seemed to tumble faster, brown with rich silt and narrowing as it flowed through fields and rolling hills. On its banks small figures ran and laughed, their large, bare feet leaving prints in the rich earth. Upon a low hill, two taller figures stood, watching fondly as the youngsters played.

“It’s good to see the banks holding up against the spring floods again. And now we’ve repaired the irrigation systems to the lower fields we’ll have a good crop.” Merry’s voice carried undertones of his father and there was no doubt now that this was the future Master of Buckland.

Pippin tilted his head and gave a mischievous grin. “Does that mean you’ll be having the autumn festival this year?”

Merry laughed, reaching out with his right hand to clap him firmly on the back. “It does. And you will be invited, as usual. I think that this year we will be able to provide enough food to satisfy even a Took.”

The vision of Pippin’s mock hurt faded and Elrond was standing in the clearing, staring at the tiny figure upon the couch. Frodo lay still, his breathing easy and every limb relaxed and at peace. All those who had been drawn into the dangerous quest of the Fellowship had found their heart’s home. And it was Frodo’s sacrifice which had made that possible. 

But all was not yet complete, for Elrond could still sense a large and gaping rent in Frodo’s fea. The matter of the Ring had yet to be resolved. Surely another of the Valar would step forward now to heal this dreadful hurt?

A strong contralto joined with his and Elrond turned in surprise to face his mother by marriage. Galadriel slipped easily into the music, with a familiarity born of long years of sharing song with her daughter’s spouse.

Loneliness. The silent pain of knowing that no other ever can or ever will know the pain within one soul. The agony of seeing those around you suffering, being in possession of the power to ease that pain and not able to wield it. The despair of feeling love usurped by need and need by greed, until all else is driven out and there is only dark lust where sweet light of love once resided.

A small cry drew Elrond’s gaze back to the couch, where Frodo now squirmed, even beneath the soothing touch of Este and Lorien. His eyes were still closed but tears now began to slide afresh from dark lashes and Este arose, beckoning Galadriel to take her place. The golden lady did so, folding neatly to her knees at Frodo’s side and placing her hand upon his breast. Frodo cried out at the touch, as if burned, and Elrond would have stepped forward to restrain her had not Este done the same to him.

“Go on with your song, bearer of Vilya. All will be well.” The Valier’s voice came from within inches of his ears, her gentle hands upon his shoulders holding Elrond as surely as the grip of any mighty warrior. He did as he was bidden, eyes now fixed upon the still writhing figure of the hobbit.

Galadriel was relentless, singing of pride and deception, anger and lust. Her usually serene expression melted away and Elrond saw a part of her mind that he had at times suspected but never been privy to. Here was the sister of Finrod, who pursued the Silmaril. Here was she who had dared to accept the doom of the Valar in the lust for power. 

Her song was strident, almost drowning out Elrond’s and Frodo now curled upon his side, deep sobs shaking him although Lorien still held him in the partial comfort of sleep. Then her part softened and with it her visage, and Elrond saw the humbled lady who had turned aside the freely offered gift of The One Ring. Here was the lady who had finally forsaken her pursuit of power and remained Galadriel. The lady who had returned to Valimar to accept any punishment that the Valar decreed. And Elrond saw at last, what that punishment was as she knelt at Frodo’s side and her son by marriage saw the silver tears slip down her pale face to merge with Frodo’s. Her words became clear to Elrond at last.

“The lust for power is a terrible thing, Ringbearer. It can consume even those who have walked this earth since before sun and moon were wrought. You were pitted against a foe beyond your strength and you cannot punish yourself for that. To do so is to let pride rule you. For is it not pride to believe that you were capable of denying such a power as The One Ring?

“You came to this place for healing and healing you will find. But it comes not just from the Valar. It comes also from you. Let fall the pride of the Ringbearer and become again the humble Frodo, Son of Drogo. Mourn no longer for that which you were not strong enough to possess. Take up again the life that once you loved, for all has been restored to you, if you will but accept the gift and turn from your grief. 

“You sought forgiveness from those who you have not wronged. Seek forgiveness now from him who you truly wronged. Forgive yourself, Frodo.”

For long moments Elrond thought that Frodo would reject her words for he cried out his pain and distress and continued to struggle against the feather light touch of the elven princess. Then, of a sudden, his body fell limp upon the couch and Este urgently brushed aside Galadriel’s hand to replace it with her own.

Elrond fell silent, fearing that all was lost. Then the silence was broken by the gentle outflow of a long sigh. Frodo drew another breath, this time slow and deep, and let it out again. Este and Lorien turned him gently upon his back and straightened his limbs, while Olorin covered him in a soft blanket and dabbed away Frodo’s tears. 

All watched in silence as Frodo slumbered, some pleasant dream gently curving his lips. The gem at his throat glowed in the starlight and somewhere in the woods about them a nightingale began his sweet and piercing hymn to the simple joy of living. 

And blended with that song was another . . . sweet and yet strong . . . light threaded with the memory of darkness . . . joy made all the more perfect by the echo of pain now yielded.

 

END


End file.
